Here is a sentence no sane man expects to utter while still tethered to reality:
"Belladonna, please stop using ontological paradoxes to defend why the soup deserves civil rights."
But such was my morning at the Echo Shrine.
Let me back up. After last week's minor religious revolution, and the fact that Fluffernox had been worshipped as a demi-savior for exactly twenty-four hours before accidentally smothering a ceremonial altar in tuna guts, you'd think the cult would cool off. They did not. They held a Soup Baptism. With a floating ladle. It glowed.
Somewhere between sacred breadstick rituals and being declared an honorary Patron of Spaghetti (long story), I'd lost control of my own narrative.
And now, things had escalated.
"The Soup Eye is watching," murmured Mirielle, adjusting her ceremonial apron.
"It judges you, Kael," added Seraphina. "Mostly for under-seasoning."
Great.
Let's talk about philosophers.
The Echo Monastery had apparently decided this week was Debate Week, where student monks and acolytes were forced to engage in "Spiritual Philosophical Combat" which is exactly what it sounds like. You argued until your opponent broke down crying, declared the nature of time to be fake, or left to join a mushroom commune.
I, unfortunately, was enrolled.
"You can't avoid the training trials forever," said Master Echo Voice, who I was beginning to suspect was just Spoon doing a bad impression of Morgan Freeman.
"But I already passed the mental trial. I stared at my own trauma in a mirror until it tried to unionize."
"That was the pre-trial. Now you must face... a philosopher."
And that's how I got stuck across from Jondren the Wise, a fourth-year acolyte whose entire personality revolved around speaking only in riddles, writing haikus about cosmic soup, and loudly whispering "entropy is delicious" at lunch.
He also wore a poncho made of recycled scrolls.
The duel began.
"Your soul is soup," Jondren intoned.
"You are what you eat, so... chunky chicken miso?"
He scowled. "Time is broth. Memory is the seasoning."
I countered. "But if you stir too much, the noodles fall apart. Is that not the nature of trauma?"
Murmurs. Gasps.
A goat sneezed in the distance.
Jondren tried to regain ground. "Then who, if not the self, is the ladle?"
"Me," said the Spoon.
Everyone screamed.
Spoon had risen.
Again.
I know what you're thinking. Kael, why does your life now involve theological spoon-based interruptions?
Because I'm cursed. Obviously.
Spoon hovered above us like an angry soup deity, casting shadows across the courtyard.
"You dare argue over metaphors when the Glitch Boil thickens? Fools. Your ingredients are pride and ignorance. Simmer, or be stewed."
"Spoon," I said, "you're not actually the god of soup."
"And yet here I float."
Hard to argue with that.
"This counts as divine intervention!" shouted Mirielle. "We must rewrite the scrolls."
"What scrolls? We only made them last week—"
"Then rewrite them better."
The debate turned into a cult sermon. Again. Belladonna showed up wearing a half-mask and wielding a tomato as if it were holy.
"Today we cleanse our ladles," she said solemnly.
"Belladonna, please stop turning the philosophy courtyard into a pasta-based blood ritual."
"Too late. The spaghetti has been sanctified."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
I turned to Seraphina for help. She was spoon-whittling a ceremonial scepter.
"Please don't say it's tradition."
"It's tradition."
Of course.
Then the Soup Eye returned.
Yes, that one.
A floating, glowing, slightly judgmental magical construct that appeared during Chapter 75 when Fluffernox accidentally absorbed three scrolls, burped prophecy, and birthed a soup-shaped surveillance artifact.
It hovered. It blinked. It judged.
"Who summoned the Eye?" I groaned.
"It comes when the broth thickens," said Jondren. "When meaning condenses. When flavor transcends."
"So... every time someone burns their stew?"
"Exactly."
The Soup Eye blinked at me.
"No," I said.
It blinked again.
"Don't you dare."
It beeped.
Then it projected a glowing sign above me:
HERETIC LADLE-REJECTOR DETECTED.
Spoon screamed.
"I AM THE LADLE."
Chaos.
The monks began chanting.
Belladonna called for a sacred pot.
Fluffernox rolled across the courtyard with three spoons duct-taped to his back.
Mirielle summoned a rain spell to make it "feel more brothlike."
Seraphina drew a chalk circle and invoked the Nine Herbs of Enlightenment (they were basil, thyme, rosemary, etc).
I did the only rational thing.
I sat down and began eating my emergency trail mix.
"Kael!" shouted Spoon. "Take your place as chosen emissary of the Ladle Order!"
"You're not a religion. You're a kitchen accident with delusions of grandeur."
The Soup Eye blinked approvingly.
Wait. Approvingly?
"Did I just win an argument with a magical soup orb?"
Jondren gasped. "You passed the philosopher's trial!"
I blinked. "I what?"
He bowed. "Only by embracing absurdity can one surpass it."
So now I am apparently the certified Echo Monastery debate champion. My prize? A ceremonial whisk and a coupon for free broth at the refectory.
Also, the Soup Eye follows me now.
It hovers behind me in silent judgment. Like taxes. Or exes.
Next Time on Yes, I Was Reborn. No, I Don't Want a Harem. Stop Looking at Me Like That:
Chapter 82 – "Soup Trial by Combat (Or: Belladonna Duels a Stockpot)"
Flames. Flavor. Existential spice. You thought this arc was over? Not until someone challenges the Soup Pope for control of the ladle.
Spoiler: It's Belladonna.